“Not nearly,” I say.
When we’ve made our arrangements, I walk the man, Robert, to the front door. He thanks me and tells me he’ll be by next week to see how things are coming along, but that there’s no rush. We shake hands and he leaves. When I turn around Joey isn’t sitting behind the counter. I find him in the back.
“What are you going to do with this?” he asks.
“Make a sandwich,” I say.
He reaches down with one of his stubby fingers and pokes the bird as if to check and make sure it’s actually dead.
“Don’t touch that.”
“I just wanted to see.”
“See what?” I ask. “If it was gonna jump up and fly away?”
He twists his face into an expression of disinterest I’ve never seen him make before, but looks oddly familiar.
“Never mind,” he says and begins to walk out. And for some reason, maybe concern that he might complain to Meredith about me, I stop him.
“Joey.”
“What?”
“Do you want to watch me work?” I instantly feel like a fool for asking. And I half expect a biting sarcastic response, but instead he turns and faces the table without looking up at me. And so I begin to prepare my tools.
For the next hour I work intently. I remove the paper towels Robert stuffed in the bird’s mouth to keep blood from soiling the feathers. The turkey hadn’t been field dressed so after turning it onto its back, I make a slow careful incision down the chest. I remove the turkey’s innards, making sure to point out the heart and gizzard to Joey. The coppery smell of blood mixes with the strong smell of the ammonia I use to clean the workroom. I make a cut on the neck, reach down and gently pull out the sac-like crop, and when I cut it open I show Joey what the tom ate for his last meal, feed corn. I carefully clean away all the blood and dirt and grit until the feathers that remain are spotless. Although the bird was molting, I do my best to begin recreating the feather pattern Mother Nature gave him. Occasionally, as I work, Joey stops me to ask a question. When the time comes to remove the bird’s eyes he asks if I will let him take one out. At first I greet this request with caution. If he is clumsy or quick he could damage the socket and make my work more difficult, but I agree and watch as he carefully plucks out the tiny orb with a pair of tweezers. He drops it into the aluminum waste basket beside the table.
“That’s fucking gross,” he says, smiling. “You do this all the time?”
“Yeah, I have to remove the real thing so I can put in the glass ones,” I say. I can tell that he’s interested. “You ever gone hunting?” I ask.
“No. I’ve always wanted to though.”
“You should learn,” I say. “It’s fun.” But somehow I can’t quite convince myself to offer an invitation. Nothing has changed between us and there is still a question I want to ask him. We are both staring at the turkey, both focusing on the job that is yet to be finished.
“Why did you hurt that boy?”
He looks up at me surprised, but without a trace of shame on his face.
“Because I wanted to,” he says defiantly. But he’s lying. I tell myself that there has to be more, and I won’t allow him to get off that easily.
“Please tell me,” I say. I feel that I am owed this, by this boy, by his father. I have wondered for a long time. “What made you?”
Joey lowers his eyes and stares at the turkey propped on its back, listening, it seems, to our conversation. After a few moments of silence, he answers.
“He calls me fat ass,” he says. “He told everyone in school that I’m a bastard, that I don’t have a father. He calls me the Immaculate Erection.” Joey smoothes down a feather on the turkey’s wing and then he adds, “Don’t tell my mom.”
For a moment I think he’s lying. But something, maybe the way he hides his face when he tells me, makes me believe him.
“Did you know my dad?” he asks. Meredith, I know, told him once that his father and I went to the same school, but he has never asked me about him before.
“We didn’t exactly run in the same circles,” I say. I can tell he’s disappointed by my answer. “He was a great athlete though, I remember that,” I add, even though it hurts to admit it. I wish I could tell him something more, but this is the best I can offer, and I feel traitorous toward myself even for this.
“Sometimes I hate him,” he says. “Sometimes I hope he’s dead.”
When he says this, I see him for the first time as an ally. I want to tell him how many times, in my imagination, his father has died by my own hand, describe to him the look of fear and regret on his father’s face when I, for once, am in control. I want to tell him the things his father did, not only to me, but to others, to Meredith. The names she has told me he called her. I want to tell him how, when his father ran off, he left Joey alone in his crib when he was supposed to be the one watching him, something Meredith has sworn she will never reveal to Joey. But instead I say, “Don’t hate him.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. Maybe because I have hated his father enough for the both of us. “I’m sure he had his reasons,” I tell him. I put a hand on his shoulder, give it a squeeze. And when I look down at the turkey again, I can see that it’s coming together. I’m happy that it already has a home with Robert’s son, and won’t be one I display at Custom Critters. As much as I’d like to keep all of the animals I preserve, it’s better to let some of them go. Looking up, I notice how clean the workroom is. Bottles of chemicals and boxes of supplies line the shelves along the walls. The tubs I use for staining and cleaning are stacked neatly in a corner. The shop is quiet and well-lit and it fills me with something like satisfaction.
“You did alright with the taxidermy,” I tell Joey.
“Yeah, well I’ve been looking at your stuff in the showroom for the last three days and I figured I couldn’t do much worse,” he says.
“Asshole,” I say, but there’s a lightness to my voice that I’m sure he can hear.
“Eat me,” he says.
Later we meet Meredith at the Chinese buffet on the other end of the strip mall. We sit in a booth and eat shrimp wontons and pork fried rice. Joey Jr. leaves the table to get more spareribs.
“Any progress?” Meredith asks. She knows Joey and I have had a rough start. I shrug. But she can tell. Neither Joey nor I will say it, but the waiter has already brought the check and the fortune cookies and we still haven’t insulted each other and that, at least, is something. Joey returns and resumes eating. All around us families are talking and laughing and arguing. Meredith grabs my hand beneath the table and I think of how I might wait awhile before I ask her again to marry me, I might not ask at all if that’s what she wants. Just because you’re not married doesn’t mean you’re not in love. Across the table, Joey has a smudge of soy sauce on his cheek and Meredith rubs it away with her free hand. And I can’t help to think that somewhere Joey Sr. is missing all of this. That even if he has another family, another life, he’s still missing this, the man his son will grow to be, the mother Meredith has already become. And I feel like someone should let him know all about it, about all of the pain and wonder and love he’ll miss out on. But I have no desire to be the one to tell him, or even to see the expression on his face when he hears.
The Gambler
IN THE MONTHS FOLLOWING his wife’s death, Harold Finkston tried to structure his days in such a way as to keep his mind occupied. Mornings he was up at six, the left side of the bed undisturbed, the cool interiors of his threadbare slippers waiting for him when he swung his feet over the side. There was coffee and eggs, a warm five-minute shower and a shave, the selection from his closet of a button-down shirt, faded khakis, his grayish orthopedic New Balances, a walk to the Saddlewood Patio Homes’ Community Center for more coffee and mind-numbing retirement-center gossip, shuffleboard, table tennis, a ham sandwich and chips for lunch, nine holes in the afternoon, one, maybe two Tom Collins afterwards in the clubhouse, dinner alone in front of the TV at five, another shower, rinse, sleep, repeat.